


When I Fall

by Venturous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <br/><p><strong>Title:</strong> When I Fall<br/><strong>Author: </strong>Venturous1<br/><strong>Fandom</strong>: Sherlock (BBC)<br/><strong>Characters</strong>: Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson<br/><strong>Rating</strong>: R<br/><strong>Word Count</strong>: 600<br/><strong>Summary</strong>: Molly has a lot on her mind when she goes to bed at night<br/><strong>Notes</strong>: Thanks to <span></span><a href="http://tjs-whatnot.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://tjs-whatnot.dreamwidth.org/"><b>tjs_whatnot</b></a>  for beta review, and of course to Moftiss, for breaking my heart so cleverly. This could possible become a series.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Early Wednesday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> **Title:** When I Fall  
>  **Author:** Venturous1  
>  **Fandom** : Sherlock (BBC)  
>  **Characters** : Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
>  **Rating** : R  
>  **Word Count** : 600  
>  **Summary** : Molly has a lot on her mind when she goes to bed at night  
>  **Notes** : Thanks to [](http://tjs-whatnot.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**tjs_whatnot**](http://tjs-whatnot.dreamwidth.org/) for beta review, and of course to Moftiss, for breaking my heart so cleverly. This could possible become a series.

When I fall, I fall hard. Only once before have I crushed this hard (God, I hate that word, makes me feel so juvenile) a crush so profound that there was no escaping its gravity. But that was in school, and one is forgiven for those things as a child. But here I am, a grown-up, an MD for pity’s sake, mooning for an unattainable man, the sun I orbit.

I can’t tell you why, or where it started. God knows he never encouraged me, unless you count just showing up and being brilliant. Oh, and asking for things. “Molly would you fetch the beaker?” “Molly could I get a fresh right forearm, please?” “Molly can we get this sample run?” No matter its half three in the a.m. or I have to desecrate a corpse. I’ve been a daft schoolgirl, unable to resist him from the very start.

You know, bloody hell, _everyone_ knows how futile is my cause. I don’t show on his radar. I’ve always been out of his league. And since John Watson, he never really even looks at anyone else. Not that he did before John, for that matter.

I like John, I really do. He’d make a much better husband for me: we’re both doctors, we’re both ordinary. If we hadn’t met in the glare of “the amazing Sherlock Holmes” it might have been different. At least he’ll carry on a proper conversation with me. And of course, we have _Him_ in common. Seriously, I often think he’s as smitten as I am.

It’s late, or early I guess; I can feel the city begin to hum. The light comes creeping through my lace curtain, and I haven’t managed to sleep a whit. Where are you, Sherlock Holmes? Are you alright? Are you hungry, cold? I want to wrap a blessing around you, some kind of protection. I wait with a certain anticipation, and a certain dread for your key in the lock. I pray for something I can never have: for you to slip into my room, my bed.

OK, I’ve confessed. I do spin out that fantasy, willing him in my dream to drop his cool charade, to succumb to what’s so readily offered, my body, my love. I’ll pull up my nightie and run my hands over myself, cupping my breasts - they may be small, but they’re sweet, and soft, and responsive -- and he’ll put his mouth on me, suck the whole thing into his mouth, experimenting, being odd in his own odd ways; alarming, amazing, spectacular.

He’ll spend a long time on each one, examining coldly, then mouthing warmly, then flicking 'til it nearly hurts, and I’ll moan and push him away, push him down. He will never kiss me, but he will explore me like a continent, and I will let him do anything, anything, oh yes please. There.

My lovers have never really tried to please me. It’s always more like being used, a toy for dirty things. One thing I did love about Jim was what a respectful gentleman he was. Seemed to be. I was beginning to think we might be a real couple, he was so nice. But then, well. My name may as well be Fool. No, Folly: Folly Hooper.

Damn, I’ve lost the moment. Thought I’d at least get another lovely fantasy out of it. Seems they’ve become even more vivid now, since in the wee hours, my gaunt and elegant ghost makes himself comfortable in my flat. He doesn't know I’m not sleeping, just waiting in the dark for him.  



	2. Wednesday Night

John  
  
When I fall into bed at night I’ve exhausted myself as much as possible with work, distractions, pub food and telly. I’ve taken the best drugs I can get, something that will knock me out and not leave me gormless in the morning. Thank god for Sarah: she’s letting me work at the surgery, and she gets me the meds. I’ve promised her no more sleeping on the job.  
  
No more sleeping, period. if I’m lucky the meds will keep me down til dawn. If not, I lay there for hours, trying not to close my eyes, because then all I’ll see is him. Falling. Cracked and bleeding. Dead.  
  
“Please don’t be dead.” I can’t believe I actually said that. Out loud. No doubt Mycroft’s got surveillance, so now I am in the national archives for all time, pleading with a dead man. I can’t go back there any more. No one else wants to go back; Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, they all decline to visit the grave. Trouble is, if I don’t, I find myself expecting a text or footsteps on the stair, as if everything were normal. Which it is not.  
  
I went back to see Ella today. It was awful. She wants me to say it out loud. That he’s... gone. I won’t say it, that will make it ‘real.’ Shit, I should take another Sonata. She says to turn my mind to other things. Why can’t I get to sleep?  
  
But when I do relax I imagine him coming home, bursting in with some news, some case, something he needs immediately, no matter it’s half three a.m, or he’s got some bloody corpse parts he needs me to look at. I used to get pissed off and yell at him. For all the good that ever did. I like to think if he did show up, not-dead, with some insane explanation, I’d want to kill him. He’d deserve it, the heartless bastard. But what I’d really do is grab him, and hold on for dear life. And cry.  
  
That’s what Ella wants me to do, cry. I can’t, not any more. Tears are all gone. Sorry, Sherlock, I have no more heart left. You burned that right out of me, you see. When you died, it did too. I didn’t see that coming. None of it.  
  
Everyone believes you were a fraud. That baffles me most of all, Sherlock, how everyone in your world could lose faith in you. I’ve actually written to Henry, I know he believed in you too. I need someone, anyone, who doesn’t buy this charade. It makes me feel so crazy, but I refuse to believe the lies. I’ve learned how not to say a word, how to play along. But then it’s as if I shouldn’t feel anything. I don’t want to forget, Sherlock.  
  
You weren’t a fake, not to me. I don’t know how to keep it, that true thing, when the rest of the world is trying to make me disown my own thoughts. They didn’t know you, see you. You would know what to do. And so, everything leads back to this: if only you were here.  
  
Maybe I’ll just keep you for my imaginary friend.  
  
God, I wish you were here. I wish you’d just crawl in bed with me and hold me, and then I could cry and cry. How gay is that?


	3. Early Thursday Morning

Sherlock  
  
When I fall, it’s like flying. Except I’m rather terrified. I know there’s a plan, but once I’m airborne, I’m not sure it’s a good one. Time goes strange; I thought it would take longer. In a way it was endless, but then it was over and, lights-out. I re-experience this nearly every time I sleep. I can feel my toes over the edge, the wind lifting my hair, and the moment I shove off.  
  
Thank god for Molly. She played her part to perfection. She is... more than I realized. I fear I have neglected to consider her intelligence. It was masked by her insipid insecurity and emotional demeanor. She is a competent scientist, and therefore highly observant. I just hadn’t realized how much.  
  
I try to stay out until she’s certain to be asleep, but she almost never is, no matter how late the hour. I can hear her breathing. More that that I can feel her longing, like tentacles. It’s horrid, really. If I thought it would help, I’d sleep with her. But I really couldn’t fake it, not well, and that would really muck things up. Leave her to her fantasies, then, but god the air is soupy with pheromones.  
  
Tonight I made progress and located the last of the snipers in London. Now, to defang him. After that I’ll need to get out of town. I can hardly bear this skulking around, the city seems so grey. And where will I go? I have that damn Romanian passport, so I suppose I’ll hole up in the the Carpathian mountains. How drear!  
  
When Molly gets up for work I pretend to be unconscious. (I’ve mastered a realistic snore and sleeping breath.) Sometimes, she stops and just watches me. This morning she touched my hair, the lightest brush, like a feather.  
  
I heard her sigh and resisted breathing one of my own. Leaving London won’t be so hard, really. Without John the city has lost it’s allure.  
  
  
================  
  
  
Thursday noon - Molly  
  
He told me he’s going, soon. I asked him if it was that sofa, it’s hideously uncomfortable. I said he could have the bed. His face was a picture, really. I knew he thought he knew what I really wanted. Really Sherlock, I get it. Even if I’ll never stop...  
  
I saw Mike today, and he asked me to come for dinner with the family. I can’t explain that I’d rather wait at home for Sherlock to come back, just to hear his step. I’ll wait for that.  
  
I almost stroked his hair this morning. That amazing brain, that beautiful skull. He’s like a rare bird, one that’s ready to fly away in a heartbeat.  
  
Dr. Watson called me today, left a message. I can’t tell if he needs something official, or if he wants to visit, to commiserate. I don’t think I’m up for that. I’m afraid I’ll give Sherlock away, that I’d be too happy, or blurt out that he’s alright, on my sofa every night. I don’t really get why Sherlock can’t tell him. I thought they were so close.  
  
He really can be a heartless bastard.  
  
  
============  
  
  
Thursday afternoon - Sherlock  
  
“John! Don’t... where? WAIT!” I am running after him, a long alleyway, oily with sodium light, and he’s getting smaller, further away. Why is he running from me? I’m shouting: “John!”  
when I awake, half on the floor and breathless. My head is pounding.  
  
Thank god she’s not here. I manage to get some tea going. Water, drink water. Wretched dreams, I can’t understand it. Why would John run away from me?  
  
I pace the floor, agitated. there’s something here I just can’t understand. I need to leave town, and I keep delaying. I have everything I need. Why am I still here?


	4. Part 4

========  
 _Thursday night - Lestrade_  
  
I promised him once that if anything ever happened to him I’d look after John. I laughed and told him not to worry; if there ever was a man who can look after himself it’s John Watson. But I never imagined this.  
  
I met him in the pub tonight and found him in a back corner, already a few pints ahead of me, I’m sure. He talked my ear off for a while, then just began to cry, I mean really let it all out, right there in the pub. I held him and let him sob, poor man, remembering how I felt like that, not so long ago.  
  
After all I went through, drying him out, getting him back on his feet, I suspected Sherlock might come to a bad end, but I didn’t see this coming. It makes no sense: Sherlock always thought plenty well of himself. He was so bloody arrogant, always had to be right! How could he make all that shite up. No way did he jump. He was tricked, or set up, or made a mistake and fell. Something else.  
  
But no matter now, he’s dead, and there is a trail of wreckage behind him miles long. I’m sick to death of the bastard, frankly. I never want to hear his name again.  
  
I may have a job when they’re done with me, but it wont be much. Donovan’s getting promoted. I can’t stand the sight of her -- I guess I am really a sore loser. Anderson doesn’t help matters, makes it clear he hates me.  
  
And Watson, god, he is just shattered. I keep hoping he’ll snap out of it, but he’s like a ghost, floats around, doesn’t say much. Until tonight. I had to get him out of that pub, because he kept launching into a fresh rant or gout of wailing.  
  
I took him to Mrs. Hudson, I didn’t know what else to do. She made tea and put a blanket around him, made him drink up, then put him to bed like a child.  
  
“I put something in his tea, dear, to help knock him out. He’ll sleep til morning, I do know whenever I take those, for me hip, I sleep like a baby.” She has that winsome smile, still quite charming even at her age. She puts people at ease. I felt better getting her help with John.  
  
She asked me how the divorce was going. I scowled, hoping to imply “Don’t go there.” Too subtle. She didn’t pry, much.  
  
“There, there, Greg. What about that nice girl at the morgue, what’s her name again? the one who was so sweet on poor Sherlock?”  
  
“Hmmm?” I’m starting to fall asleep. She didn’t put summat in my tea, did she? “Molly? Oh, yes. Molly!” I’m remembering her at that Christmas party, wow she cleans up nice, that girl. I should look her up, I bet she’s lonely now, without Sherlock to moon over. We could cheer each other up, maybe. Maybe more.  
  
Yeah, that’s a bright idea, Greg. You could use a little cheer, and I bet she could too.  
  
  
=====  
Late Thursday night -- Molly  
  
I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Da, how when he was dying I finally got to know him. He was a good Da, kind enough, always a provider, but he never shared himself, not so that you knew who he really was. I knew a bit about what he liked. I could describe the way he looked and what he did. But I had no sense of him as a person, what he loved, what he wished for. If anything good came out of that horrid cancer, it was getting closer to the real man.  
  
I’d read to him when he couldn’t sleep. Books he loved like Kipling and Conrad, and then he let me pick some, so I read him Jane Eyre and Women in Love. He protested at first: bloody romances, he’d snort, but then got drawn in by the beautiful writing. I wish he was here, I could read to him now.  
  
I didn’t have him for very long. It’s so not fair: we were just begin to really talk, and then he died. As he neared the end he barely knew me. I’d hear him muttering, trying to speak through the morphine. Then once I leaned close I could hear:  
Cannon to right of them,  
Cannon to left of them,  
Cannon behind them...  
“That’s right, da!” I took his hand, and his eyes fluttered without recognition. I spoke it with him:  
Volley'd and thunder'd;  
Storm'd at with shot and shell,  
While horse and hero fell,  
They that had fought so well  
Came thro' the jaws of Death,  
Back from the mouth of hell,  
All that was left of them,  
All that was left of them...  
  
I squeezed his hand. “Come on, you remember:”  
All that was left of them,  
Left of six hundred.  
  
When can their glory fade?  
O the wild charge they made!  
All the world wonder'd.  
Honor the charge they made!  
Honor the Light Brigade,  
Honor the Light Brigade,  
  
Honor the Light Brigade!  
  
I cant deny it, I wept. He brightened up and reached for my face. I saw him see me, for a moment.  
  
“There, there lass, they were heroes. Good men all, do not cry for them, they went to God for England’s glory!”  
  
He smiled, and I laughed a little, and helped him sit up, and we had a proper conversation, our last one.  
  
In the last months of his life, I nearly lost my job for taking so much time, but don’t regret a single second. He finally talked to me, really told me about his life. So much I never knew! How he hated his job at the office. Hated it! He had trained as an engineer, and loved the men and machines of the mill. We lived up north when he oversaw the mill, and those were his happy days. I never knew. I was small then, and only remember motoring about together. He let me sit on his lap when he drove the car, and told me “Don’t tell your mother.”  
  
But everyone expected him to go to the office, wear the shirt and tie, be the boss. Then there were no more weekend jaunts, it was all Daddy’s busy, Da is tired, Da needs quiet. He snapped at me to clean my room and do my schoolwork, and I was bereft; he didnt love me any more, no more cuddling, no more lap. Go be with your mother, do the laundry. Laundry! Bloody hell, anything but laundry!  
  
I poured myself into school. and much later he said he was proud of me, but I never felt it when I was a girl. Not at all, not til we read and laughed and cried together on his deathbed.  
  
My father was a good man. He only tried to do the right thing, for the right reasons. And he hid his heart. He never complained, and never let me love him, not really, not til the end. He didn't ask for love, for himself.  
  
It makes me wonder why I love Sherlock so much. He’s not a good man. He plays games with people, he ignores their feelings. Because he dismisses his own, I’m coming to see. He does brilliant things, but doesn’t listen to his heart, and it’s hurting him.  
  
This morning I sat at watched him sleep. I think he was really sleeping, for a change, not faking it as is the usual. Like Da, not like Da. He hides his heart. He doesn’t ask for love.  
  
I had to help him. I’d do anything for him, I’m just pitiful that way. I’d give him my heart knowing full well he’ll tromp all over it. He’s oblivious to my feelings, because he has no regard for his own. and when I think of my Da, living his whole life doing what he was expected to do, and never letting his heart see the light of day, not since those early years, I know this is no way for a man to live.  
  
Sherlock does it differently; he’s so selfish -- he’s not doing what he does for love, or rather, to help people. He has a love of truth, of , of... what is it? principle? no, not that. He dashes principles to dust, calling them sentiment, all the time. But he’ll light up when a formula gels just right, or when he finds a salient fact, and of course, when he is proven right. He loves something... I’ll just be arsed if I can name what it is.  
  
Until John, that is. He wont admit it, but he loves John. I could see it from their first meeting. It’s only become more obvious. I’m beginning to suspect he won't let himself know it. It would disprove one of his Great Ideas, that caring is a flaw.  
  
No he’s not a good man. But that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to my heart.


	5. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Sherlock to go.

Early Friday Morning - Sherlock

 

I should have gone. But I waited too long. and Molly, blast her, (who saved my life) pounced on me last night like a mad kitten. She was waiting for me when I came in, and insisted that we have a ‘talk.’ Unpolished nails. Hair disheveled. Empty wine bottles. I was certain she would throw herself at me again, then was annoyed that she didn’t. So she got me off-guard, I suppose. There you go again, underestimating her.

She demanded I explain why I couldn’t tell John I was alive. She insisted I was cruel and unfair and heartless. (Heartless: how one grows weary of the cliches!) But she was unrelenting and I was astounded; I’ve presumed upon her mousy manner so many times that I failed to notice the mama tiger underneath.

She would not be deflected, attempting to slap me and actually rousing my ire. She accused me of not caring. I usually don’t give a damn about caring. Of course I dont ‘care’ -- it only makes people vulnerable to delusion! It clouds my judgement. I cant afford it, in my line of work.

But this was about John. Damn it! I just burst out yelling at her, and nearly looked over my shoulder to see who the idiot was who raised his voice.

What is wrong with me?

 

==========  
Molly -- Friday

He came to my room last night. I was sound asleep, dreaming some nice randy dream, and he’s stoking my hair, and grabs my shoulder and...

“Sherlock!” I sit straight up, at a loss for words. In the dark I see him, pale face visible even in shadow. We stare at one another for a long while. “Well?” I’m failing to keep a certain tremor out of my voice.

“Molly.”

I think my heart will explode. Could he be here for me? I can’t believe it.

“I have to leave. It’s time.”

I stare and stare, memorizing his beautiful face, quite frightening in the weird light; If I didn’t adore the planes and angles, those alien eyes, those incredible lips... he’d be terrifying. I swallow, remember to breathe.

After he left earlier, angry, I didn’t expect him back for a while. Days, maybe. Must be why I fell asleep, right? Not waiting for him. Well, also plenty exhausted. Not getting enough these days.

“Molly.”

I want to cry, listening to him say my name. My. Name. His. Lips. Lips, mmmm. I’m frozen, stopped. Rigor will set in if I don’t do something, say something, but I am truly speechless. I need to wait, for him to choose. I wait.

He reaches for me, touches my face. I want nothing more than to melt into him, for this to be ‘it’: that kiss I’ve rehearsed, that love scene I’ve scripted a thousand times. But I need it to be real this time, or not at all.

His pale hand slips between the air and my skin, touches my face, fingers sliding around ear, into hair, covering my cheek, suddenly so warm and pulsing. His face is closer than it’s ever been. He looks into me, I’m pierced by that ice-coloured gaze, not cold now. But I feel like the rabbit staring into the wolf’s eyes, completely willing to die. I’ve never, nothing so intimate, anyone, ever...

I have to close my eyes. I feel his lips: not a faint touch, but not a passionate press. He kisses me, firmly, with intent. Do I feel a tremble in him? But then the warmth is gone, my mouth is ringing with the sensation, I have to gasp for some air, his hand trails from ear to neck to shoulder and we’re just there, breathing in the dark.

“I can’t begin to repay you for what you’ve done for me, Molly. You’ve saved me, and saved the lives of... people, important people. More than you know. “ He looks at me so intent, as always focused, yes, but not like this, this is open and attentive. He swallows.

“I must, um, thank you, oh, it’s so much more than that. I’m...grateful.” He’s searching my face again, waiting for something from me. I fear if I move an eyelash I might cry.

“You matter. To me. You seem to know, see, things I do not, about people.” He shakes his head. “I know you don’t approve of my keeping John unaware of my plan, but I must convince you, Molly, I am doing it to protect him. You know what Jim did to him before. His people, they are still working, and they would hurt, kill him. I can’t allow that.”

“It’s so unkind to him, depriving him of you, putting him through the horrid grief of losing you. I don’t think you realize that, Sherlock.” My voice sounds very low and soft in my own ears. “He loves you, too, you know.”

Sherlock looks puzzled. I watch him run through something in his mind. He’s quite animated when he’s thinking. I see him decide.

“I can trust you, Molly.”

I nodded.

“You must not reveal me. Not to anyone. I am in pursuit of an assassin, the one who was about to kill John if I did not die. Others here in London have been... dealt with. I must go, abroad, and take care of this man, make sure he is no longer a threat. And there are others, my work now is to unravel what Moriarty built. Can you see? This is best done as a ghost, and safest for everyone.”

I must have looked stricken. I was thinking about him gone, no longer where I can see him, catch his scent, find his hair on the sink. For he looked suddenly so worried.

“Oh! I am keeping you safe, too! Don’t be afraid, my brother, his people, you will be alright, I promise you.” He peered at me, oddly concerned. It looks so strange on him.

At this I must have smiled, but I was feeling so sad, so much like this was the end. For it was, wasn’t it? He’s off, then, and god knows where, and I will never hear a thing, if he’s killed or anything, and he’ll be dead to everyone, including me.

And then he did something so remarkable, so un-Sherlock, I hardly believed it: He reached out and drew me into a hug, let me nestle into his shoulder and yes, I did cry, I couldn’t hold it back, and he gave a brotherly kiss to the top of my head. Sherlock Holmes was comforting me.

It was good, it was right, not in that lovely romance kind of way, but for gods sake this man has caused me no end of suffering. I could use some comfort, just this once. So I took it.

After a little while, after I took note of what it was like in his arms, listened to his heartbeat, felt his warm breath in my hair, I pushed back a little and looked up at him.

“Good luck, Sherlock. Stay safe. People really do care about you, you know. Goodbye.”

“Good night, Molly.”

And he was gone.

 

~ FIN ~


End file.
